Red Thread
by SnapesYukuai
Summary: We all know the scene in the episode Fugue, where DeBryn stitches Morse back together but have you ever wondered what happened before (and how it made Morse feel to be treated in a bloody morgue of all places)?


Hello Folks! Finally the new season has aired and although this has ghosted around my head for quite a while, I finished it only two days ago and afterwards stumbled across the second season quite by accident (LOVED IT).

Anyway, a little journey back to series one now and two of my favourite characters:

Enjoy!

Pain is seeping into his body insidiously like poison; slowly – like it is creeping through his very veins – it begins to spread outward from the slash wound.

Bright spots dance in front of his eyes even as his breathing quickens in panic. He can feel the blood trickling down his side; can see the wet patch on the inside of his suit jacket. He can _smell _the tangy, iron like odour of blood and that's when his legs give way and he topples to the ground.

Vaguely Morse registers a shout of "Over here! Man down!" before Jim Strange appears in his field of vision, veering in and out of focus as panic and blood loss wreck havoc on his body.

"You're okay, Matey. You're gonna be alright." Morse tries to focus on his friend but at the moment he can only stare at his hands, curiously clean despite the bloody gash on his side. Strange's next words pull him back into reality, though:

"I'm going to put some pressure on it, if it's okay."

Morse' eyes whip up to meet Jim's concerned ones but before he can protest the man suits action to words and presses his large hand onto the wound. Endeavour screams! He tries to recoil, to twist away but Strange is relentless, steadily reassuring him while he stems the blood flow. Morse thinks that any moment now he's going to faint but for once it doesn't happen. Instead he is caught in a haze of panic and pain, breaths coming in short shallow gasps, intermixed with his deep moans.

It seems like an eternity before other voices mix with Jim's gentle murmur; or rather a single voice that sounds familiar somehow. His eyes are squeezed shut and he cannot bring himself to open them and so he listens:

That voice – nearer now – is deep, collected and has a velvety note to it, that makes it sound cultured and soothing. As always his mind works without fail even though his body does not. He can feel the cogs in his mind turn as he matches that voice to an identity.

He snaps his eyes open but his vision is blurred. DeBryn is speaking again, though, and Morse tries to focus on the words:

"Strange." And with a bit more urgency: "Morse!" The voice seems to come from a greater distance now, maybe DeBryn talks to Strange – or maybe it is just the rushing in his ears that tunes out everything else.

"Conveniently, I was at the station when the call came in and thought it prudent to come along at once. So, let's have a look at the result of your latest misadventure, shall we, Morse?"

Morse knows the last bit is directed at him but concentrating is so damn hard right now. Strange's hand is taken off his wound and it's a relief but other hands replace it and apply new agonizing pressure as the skin surrounding the gash is gently palpated.

Endeavour screams again – a rough, strangled cry that he cannot keep in.

Max examines patient and wound with eyes trained by years of practice. Morse's face is ashen, scrunched up in immense pain. Furthermore one would have to be blind not to see the signs of shock and panicked fear in this young man. He knows, though, that Morse isn't afraid of death or injury to himself. No, it is his innate fear of blood and gore that has brought him into this state. While taking all this in at a glance he only voices the details pertaining to the state of the wound:

"It is a clean cut, most likely forged with a sharp knife. That is not a good thing, actually, as these wounds tend to bleed more profusely and are more difficult to treat. Judging by the amount of blood on his shirt and jacket there's been substantial blood loss already. He needs to go to hospital immediately."

Neither Strange nor DeBryn expect what happens next:

"No!" Morse shoots up from his reclined position before he gives it a conscious thought, grabbing Max by the lapels of his jacket in his desperation.

"Morse!" For once the doctor's eyes are widened in surprise.

"No! I cannot go to hospital right now! The girl will die, if I do that!" His words are an urgent hiss suddenly his gaze is clear; as if the injury never happened.

"Morse, be sensible. This is not just some scratch that I put a band aid on." DeBryn's deep voice hasn't lost its cool but Morse can see his inner turmoil. It's in his dark eyes, almost hidden within the depths of that formidable mind.

"That's not important! I have to save her. _He_ set that riddle 'specially for me. If I do not solve it nobody will. So it is _you_ or nobody treating this..." For a moment he falters, the old phobia rearing its ugly head. He swallows convulsively and turns a shade paler. "... This wound."

It is in times like these that Max sees the man that Morse will become: The brilliant, unshakable man with iron principles and natural authority. It is so unlike the shy young man that is acting as DI Thursday's bagman and yet it's all there even now, in situations like these; all in those blue determined eyes.

And still, he has Morse's health to consider first and foremost. His state had been slightly worrying when he had arrived and his outburst and movements right now haven't done him any favour.

"Please." It is a whisper now and Max is shocked by it although he doesn't show it. No matter how polite and respectful a fellow Morse is, he has never openly pleaded – with any one – not until now. For a long moment he pins the young detective's pain filled gaze with his own, searches and debates silently, then he nods.

The moment Endeavour sees the doctor give his silent assent it is as if somebody pressed a button to turn the pain back on. It is intense, more so than before his argument with the other man. With a barely suppressed moan he sways dangerously, only vaguely aware of the strong hands on his shoulders that guide him to lie back down.

"I am sorry, Morse." He isn't sure what the pathologist means and for a moment fears that he revised his decision regarding the hospital. It takes only a moment, though, to make the meaning of those words most clear:

The last thing he knows is something like gauze or a thick cloth touching his wound, then there is pressure, burning agony and finally darkness.

Morse wakes up lying on a cold surface. The smell of disinfectant stings in his nose and he can hear the faint gurgle of water rushing out of a faucet.

_What has happened? Where am I?_

His thoughts run in circles while he tries to match his observations to a location. Somehow it is harder now than it was when he recognized Dr. DeBryn by his voice. _But why is that so? _Certainly his wound hurts as much as before but it isn't any more debilitating than when he lay in front of the Bodleian Library... so why?

He learns of the reason when he can convince himself to open his eyes and sees that he lies (of all places) on a metal slab in a morgue. Knowledge that his mind has tried to protect him from while it's been just his other senses doing the exploring, now rushes at him with terrifying intensity!

He can practically feel all colour leaving his face and before he knows it his heart beats in a wild staccato! If he had not been hindered by sheer panic his first instinct would have been to look for DeBryn but somehow that is beyond him now.

Getting air into his lungs is as difficult as hell and it feels like it isn't his wound to which pressure is applied but his chest. He forgets that DeBryn is in the room while his imaginative mind leads him through visions of horror. One would expect him to leap off the examination table the first chance he gets but his body seems frozen on the spot; won't obey him in any way!

"Morse. _Morse_!" Hands grab his shoulder, no doubt trying to reassure him but he fights the touch, suddenly able to move again, unable, though, to distinguish between reality and fantasy.

"No! Morse, don't move! You will hurt yourself further! You are safe!"

However much Max tries to restrain his patient to keep him from hurting himself, it is as if a wild animal has been unleashed. Morse fights him with the strength of the deeply afraid. DeBryn knows if he doesn't find a solution to this quickly, Morse will inevitably hurt himself.

Max doesn't like it, but it's the only way and so he proceeds...

Morse head feels completely blank and at the same time completely stuffed with screaming, screeching voices of his instinct all telling him to flee! It's like drowning, only worsened by those strong hands holding him down relentlessly, and so he fights with all his might.

That is until the grip on his shoulders changes somehow, shifts him, tightens and then he cannot move at all. That grip, it's like a straightjacket! It makes him want to scream, only that he has no breath left in his lungs to do it; panic seems to have sucked him dry of air.

It's when fear and panic reach their peak, when a low moan escapes him that he is finally able to make out that deep, velvety voice somewhere near his ear.

"Don't fight me; Morse. You have nothing to fear. Nothing is going to harm you other than yourself, if you insist on moving with that wound still untreated. Take slow, deep breaths. Do it on my count. One – hold it – yes, just like that – now let it out – two..."

The more that voice penetrates the fog of fear and pain the less Morse tries to fight, until finally he lies on the metal slap in an exhausted heap. The doctor's calm words begin to lull him into a rhythm of measured breathing only occasionally disrupted by a sharp intake of air.

_That voice. It's like Morpheus' voice... lulling me to sleep... making me feel safe._

At some point the hands release their iron hold on Morse, help him out of that restrained position Max had move him into to prevent further injuries. A warm hand now rests on his clammy forehead while the gently flow of words never stops.

Slowly, as if sleep walking Morse comes out of his waking nightmare.

_Bloody hell! It's taken a long time,_ Endeavour thinks. _Such damn long time before DeBryn managed to talk me out of this full blasted panic attack. Oh God, I don't think I will ever completely live this down._

And it's a long time, too, before DeBryn lifts his hand away from Morse's forehead; ends the soothing touch he has established sometime during the whole ordeal.

"That's the way, lad. That's it. Take deep breaths. You have nothing to fear, I can assure you. Just calm down."

And slowly Morse does. While his mind clears he notices with a small grimace that his shirt is completely sweat soaked. Morse shivers.

"Oh good, if you are able to feel uncomfortable, it is a sign that the panic begins to recede." DeBryn's tone is back to no nonsense and dry wit.

_Haha. Very funny._ _Well, it __**is**__ cool in the morgue!_

_... Exactly the right temperature to examine dead bodies_... A real shudder goes through him this time.

"Don't even think about going there, Morse. Much rather think about what will happen to you if I put off treatment any longer. And believe me, Morse, I am not above sending you to hospital if I think that you require more treatment than I am able to provide here. So try to stay calm while I do the necessary work. "

How Max has known that he has once again veered on the edge of panic Morse does not know, but he is grateful to his friend.

"Delaying this? Unthinkable. Who am I to take from you the pleasure of doing a bit of embroidery work on the living." It is a far cry from Morse's usual sarcasm but it definitely is a start. When he lies on his side now, trying to keep still while the doctor first numbs the area and then cleans and stitches his wound he closes his eyes and thinks of the warm reassurance of a hand on his forehead and a soothing voice in his ear.

He will never admit it, not even to DeBryn, but it helps immensely.

DMDMDMDM

Whew, that's it. My first Endeavour story. And, man, I don't have the slightest idea if I got their characters even remotely right. I greatly enjoyed writing about these two, though, so it was definitely worth the effort. ^, ~*


End file.
